


freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose

by teacuphuman



Series: the most dangerous of men [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Guilty John, John and Bane have a deal, M/M, Oral Sex, Roughness, during the occupation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: Bane keeps his promises.





	freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @brookebond and @youcantsaymylastname for their beta work and cheerleading!

Bane comes for him a week later, just like he promised. John is coming off a fourteen hour shift spent crouched outside Arkham, trying to track a pattern in their movements so they can stop the steady stream of drugs trickling out of the asylum and onto the streets. They’ve lost four kids in the last month to bad batches and he’s so bone-tired he fell asleep trying to unlock the front door. Eventually, he stumbles through and spares just enough energy to throw the locks before he’s slumped to his knees and seriously considering passing out right there.

 

Movement in the far corner of his living room has his head snapping up, squinting into the darkness for its source. It’s then that he hears the ragged inhale of Bane’s breath through the mask and he considers it a personal betrayal that his body relaxes at the sound.

 

He can pick out Bane’s mask and the general shape of the man as his eyes adjust to the gloom, and his breath stutters for a moment as want courses through his body. There’s still a dull ache inside him, where Bane’s fingers so roughly took him apart, like the ghost of a pleasure never quite realized. But it could be, he knows. It so easily could be, if only he’d consent. 

 

Because Bane won’t take what isn’t on offer. But he has this way of making John want to lay himself out in tribute, and they both know it’s only a matter of time before Bane gets what he wants. 

 

Bane’s watching him, probably taking in every hour they’ve spent apart just by the slump of John’s shoulders. Bane’s fingers curl against his palms when his eyes move from John’s chest to the scratch on his neck. A knife’s blade held to his jugular by some prick in the Narrows who wanted not only John’s coat, but the kid John had gone to find. 

 

John doesn’t make many exceptions in his moral code, but that man is now resting at the bottom of the Gotham River. He isn’t sorry he did it, but it sits there, like a rock in his gut. The knowledge that he ended a life. It makes him feel weighted and drawn in a way he never has before.

 

There’s no doubt in his mind that Bane knows what he’s done. John rarely sees Bane’s men, just a red scarf or black sleeve here and there, slipping around corners and disappearing onto rooftops, but he can feel them. Watching. 

 

Just like Bane is now. Watching John so closely his gaze is like a caress. Softer and more intimate than Bane has ever actually touched him. So John crawls. Creeping across the floor on his hands and knees with strength he doesn’t have to spare. The hardwood is unforgiving under him, but Bane is like a beacon, calling him home, and John is too tired to resist.

 

Bane’s hands are warm on his skin and John sighs as they cup his face, thumbs tracing over John’s cheeks over and over. It would almost be gentle if Bane fingers weren’t digging painfully into the muscles of his neck, keeping him in place. John closes his eyes and turns his face up to Bane, waiting for him to do what he came here to do. Waiting for him to take what John promised he would give. 

 

The rasp of Bane’s zipper is loud in the quiet room, and John nearly sobs at the simplicity of Bane’s request when the head of his cock nudges against John’s lips. He fights it, just so Bane will press against his jaw, forcing it open and allowing John the space in his mind to question if he truly has a choice in all this.

 

Bane’s cock is salty and hot, large and unforgiving as it forces its way into John’s mouth. John tries to relax, but Bane’s fingers are still pressing bruises into his skin and he can’t quite unclench enough to stop his teeth from gazing over the silky skin of the shaft. Bane hisses, but doesn’t stop, just keeps sinking deeper until he’s hitting the back of John’s throat and blocking off his air.

 

John gags, drool trickling out the side of his mouth and over his chin, and still, Bane doesn’t pull back. He stays right where he is until John is blinking away spots in his vision and his mind goes blissfully blank. Only then does Bane ease up, freeing his cock from John’s mouth and allowing him to gasp against the length of it.

 

Thick fingers thread through his hair, Bane’s palm resting over the curve of John’s skull, steady and full of unimaginable strength. He could crush John if he wanted to, twist until his neck snaps between his hands. But he doesn’t. Instead, he waits. Waits for John to calm his breathing. Until John is sedate and compliant and reaching for Bane’s cock himself, mouthing at the head and sucking him down like he’s starving for it.

 

There’s a fuzzy sound building in John’s ears as he gorges himself on Bane, taking him down again and again, wrapping his hands around the base because Bane is too long to fit inside him completely. Not for the first time, he wonders if he’ll be able to take more of Bane when he finally fucks him. If Bane will stop his assault before he’s fully seated and spreading John wide open.

 

He groans around his mouthful and palms his own cock through his pants. Bane growls above him and John sucks harder, wincing at the friction of his zipper. Bane’s hand closes around his neck when John tries to get his cock out. He chokes, adrenaline spiking through him as Bane thrusts in hard and squeezes firmly, forcing himself inside until John’s throat is burning and tears are falling down his cheeks. Only when John’s hand returns to stroking him does Bane relent. 

 

He pets John’s hair as if it’s an apology, but John shakes him off. He doesn’t want comfort now, he wants the blistering heat of Bane’s cock and the violent silence of his body that promises John he doesn’t have to think for a little while. That takes all the decisions out of John’s hands and forces him to submit. He wants to lose himself in the taste and the smell of Bane, in the leather, and chemicals, and sweat that make up his musk and drown out everything else. John wants to press his face to what little of Bane’s skin he has access to, the tanned strip of hip visible where his pants hang open. Lick and nip until it turns pink under his mouth. 

 

John wants more of Bane, so much more, and it twists something inside of him. Between the first time and now he denied it completely, convincing himself it was fear and a will to live that spurred what he felt between them in that warehouse, but now that Bane is here, massive and commanding, he can’t lie to himself anymore. 

 

Maybe it makes him a masochist, or maybe he’s just broken enough not to care, but he can’t get enough. He moans when Bane’s hand tightens in his hair, doubling his efforts until spit is dripping onto his shirt and his cock is aching in his jeans. Bane’s breaths are wheezing through the mask, barely faster or heavier than before, but John can feel the orgasm building in the way Bane is thrusting, the way his cock throbs on his tongue. 

 

When Bane comes, it’s John who groans, greedily swallowing down mouthful after mouthful, sucking gently until Bane pushes him off, sending John to the floor, panting. He’s so, so tired, his mind shutting down now that his task is done. He curls into himself, too exhausted to even care about his own erection, chasing the blissful release that comes with sleep.

 

John wakes later in bed, groggy and sore, his jaw letting out a scream of protest when he stretches and yawns. He doesn’t remember crawling into bed, much less stripping out of his clothes, and he snorts when he tries to imagine Bane being that domestic. But later, when he stumbles out of a cold shower and into the living room, he can’t deny the pile of clothes, neatly folded on the couch, or the detailed map of Arkham sitting on top. Johns open the map carefully, something charged and hopeless awakening inside him as his finger traces a list of names and a back entrance into the building.

 


End file.
